


Sick Day

by imagined_melody



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_melody/pseuds/imagined_melody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre comes down with a particularly nasty strain of the flu, and Enjolras is there to care for him. Lots of fluffy hurt/comfort. (This is a Les Mis Kink Meme fill.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for the makinghugospin Les Mis Anon Kink Meme on livejournal, for the prompt "Combeferre, vomiting & abdominal pain. The title pretty much says it all... as plotless or plotted as you'd like! No pairing preference; gen is okay too--I just want Combeferre reduced to a crying whimpering queasy mess, clutching his tummy and heaving over and over. Maybe he caught something from a patient." I was already working on something that fit the fill, but I'm pretty sure the lovely anon wasn't expecting 6000 words of rambling sickness fic!
> 
> I guess if you're a person who squicks at descriptions of sickness, I should warn for vomiting? I don't think I describe it particularly graphically, but if you think it would bother you, consider yourself warned. Also, I've never written a word of Les Mis fanfic before- and I haven't even been reading it for that long- so I'm not sure how in-character it is. I figure the hurt/comfort might make up for any characterization flaws. :)

Enjolras eased into half-wakefulness in the early hours of the morning; cracking an eye open, he blurrily noticed that it was 2:30, too early for him to wake up naturally. Someone or something must have woken him. Enjolras was about to roll over and let himself doze again when he heard a noise from the other room: a miserable retching sound. His eyes opened again, confirming his suspicions: Combeferre’s side of the bed was empty, and the light in the bathroom was on. 

He got up and padded in. Sure enough, Combeferre was doubled over in front of the toilet, miserably being sick. Every wave of nausea caused a shudder to run through his body, and Enjolras, though not an expert at comforting the sick, felt a wave of sympathy for him. He was sick a lot more often than Combeferre was, since he was notoriously bad at taking care of himself, and the other man always found a way to care for him; surely he could do the same for Combeferre. 

As the convulsions of sickness began to subside in him, Enjolras squatted down behind Combeferre, ignoring how close he was to the vomit in the toilet and how sticky his lover’s skin was. He pressed a gentle hand to the man’s forehead, wiping back the damp hair from his face and simultaneously feeling for a temperature. Combeferre made a small, desperate sound at the contact, the reassurance feeling good in the midst of his illness, so Enjolras kept smoothing back his hair, moving his hands to his shoulders both times Combeferre surged forward again– the first time to bring up more of the contents of his stomach, the second only to heave and shudder and nearly collapse against the toilet seat. Finally Combeferre slumped forward there for several moments, breathing heavily but without the urgency of someone whose body is rebelling against them; Enjolras sensed the bout of vomiting was over for the time being. 

“Bad food?” Enjolras asked him quietly, mentally running over everything the two of them had eaten in the last day or so. He felt fine.

Combeferre shook his head, which he had now pillowed on his arms; Enjolras reached over to flush the toilet so he wouldn’t have to rest directly overtop of a basin of his stomach’s contents. “Definitely the flu,” he said in a muffled voice. “There’s been a nasty one going around.”

Enjolras smoothed hands over Combeferre’s sides, frowning at the damp clamminess of his skin and the way he could feel his partner’s body wracked with chills. “Let’s get you back to bed,” he murmured, and though Combeferre seemed loathe to move from his current spot, it was more due to a lack of energy than a worry that he was about to throw up again. They got to their feet, and Combeferre stood unsteadily for long enough to rinse his mouth out and take a couple sips from a glass of water. Enjolras filled the glass halfway and took it into the room to place on the bedside table, even though he had an instinctual knowledge that Combeferre was not done being sick and would probably regurgitate even this meager amount of liquid later on.

Combeferre sank into the covers and pulled them up around him in a cocoon, even though he was warm to the touch; it was a comfort thing, Enjolras knew, more than a temperature concern. Enjolras climbed back in bed next to him and ran his fingers over the man’s forehead, combing back the sweaty hair. Combeferre shuddered, looking miserable. He stayed very still in the bed, not wanting to be jarred or disturbed in any way.

“Think you can get some sleep?” Enjolras said gently, tracing a wandering pattern in the skin of his scalp. Combeferre groaned weakly in response, but his eyes slid wearily shut. Enjolras leaned against the headboard and stayed awake until he heard Combeferre’s breaths evening out, a slow, shallow inhale and exhale with a slightly raspy quality. Only when he was sure Combeferre was asleep did he drop off himself, still half-sitting up, his hand resting on the pillow above Combeferre’s head with his fingertips just barely grazing his hair.

Combeferre was awake little more than an hour and a half later, coughing everything up again– what little water he’d been able to drink, plus bile and air and nothing at all. The exertion of it made tears come to his eyes, which he wiped away messily with the back of his hand; Enjolras brushed his own fingers over his partner’s cheeks as well, catching the remainder of the wetness against his face. Every time he returned Combeferre to bed, he was up within a couple of hours throwing up again. Enjolras quietly provided ginger ale, which Combeferre choked down, and toast, which he could barely even look at without shuddering and curling up in a ball. 

Combeferre was not the sort of doctor that makes a difficult patient; he acquiesced to Enjolras’s ministrations, and offered little advice of his own unless Enjolras asked for it, if he was unsure of what to do. The only time he volunteered anything was in the late morning, after he had once again rushed to vomit up the few sips of water he’d managed to drink an hour before. “If I still can’t keep water down by tonight, you’re gonna have to take me to Urgent Care,” he said helplessly. He was clearly incredibly unhappy; Enjolras saw tears come to his eyes with how unpleasant all of this was. He sniffled and buried his face in Enjolras’s shoulder, and Enjolras hummed and soothed him with a hand pressed to the back of his head. 

Combeferre had some more ginger ale, and finally slept a little more soundly. While he did so, Enjolras texted Joly, knowing he was working at the urgent care center that day. _Combeferre’s got the flu_ , it said. _Said I might have to bring him in if he can’t hold down water by tonight._

His phone buzzed about ten minutes later with Joly’s reply. _How long has he not been able to keep fluids down?_

 _Early this morning_ , he sent back. _He did OK with ginger ale just now. Been sleeping since 11._

 _OK_ , Joly’s response said. _If he seems good when he wakes up, give him some food. Saltines or toast or something. If he can’t even keep water down by 7, bring him in and I’ll see what I can do._

Enjolras dozed in the living room and had lunch of his own– something with a smell that wouldn’t permeate the house; he didn’t want to aggravate Combeferre’s already sensitive stomach– and then moved into the spare bedroom to attempt to get things done. He tried not to focus quite so singlemindedly on any sound from the next room. Combeferre slept for a remarkable three hours, and when Enjolras heard him stirring, he wandered back in to the bedroom. Combeferre was curled up pitifully in the bed, his face in a sort of grimace, but he didn’t seem to be in a dire situation.

“Hey, love,” Enjolras said, perching at the edge of the bed and running a hand over Combeferre’s back; Combeferre whimpered. “How’re you feeling?”

Combeferre said quietly, “My back hurts.” It was from heaving so much, Enjolras knew. He didn’t want to put too much pressure on a body that was already vulnerable to any touch or movement, but he stroked lightly with his fingers, petting him delicately. “Stomach’s kinda cramping. And I’m all sticky.”

It was true; his skin was damp with sweat. Enjolras stroked over his side, and Combeferre gingerly curled further into himself, shuddered bodily, and swallowed hard. “Gonna be sick?” Enjolras asked sympathetically.

“Not sure yet,” Combeferre choked out, working hard to steady his breathing and calm his stomach. His eyes were squeezed shut. Enjolras scratched his back and used the washcloth they’d put next to the bed to wipe down his clammy skin, and when Combeferre muttered “Shit” and rushed out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom, Enjolras angled out of the way to let him go. Combeferre didn’t vomit immediately; he sank down in front of the toilet and just shook for a minute or so. Finally he doubled over and expelled what couldn’t have been more than a tiny bit of soda and some stomach acid. 

“Enjolras,” he said quietly from the bathroom, and Enjolras came into the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe. Combeferre barely looked up from the toilet. “I feel terrible.”

Enjolras crouched next to him and kissed him on the temple. “I know,,” he said, touching him as gently as possible while still providing enough contact to be reassuring. “I texted Joly. He says if you’re not better by 7 you can come in and he’ll see you.”

Combeferre laid his head against the toilet, his hand groping up to find the toilet flush mechanism. “Fuck,” he said helplessly. “That’s hours away.”

“Think you can hold out till then?” Enjolras asked, brow furrowing in concern. Combeferre really didn’t look so good; he was pale and his skin was chilled, he wasn’t keeping anything at all down, and the sleep didn’t seem to be helping. In fact, as the day wore on, he was getting progressively more sickly. “I can tell Joly we’re coming sooner if you need to.”

Combeferre made a quiet sound that Enjolras couldn’t place, spit into the toilet to get the sour taste out of his mouth, flushed again, and then said, “If I’m not better by 5 we should go.”

“OK.” Enjolras fished his phone out of his pocket and wrote, _Make that 5? ‘Ferre’s not doing so good._ He received Joly’s affirmative response a moment later, and ran his lips against Combeferre’s temple again; the man was still sitting against the toilet, unmoving. “Joly says that’s fine.” He tangled their fingers together. “Bed or couch?”

They ended up on the couch, Combeferre’s head resting on a pillow placed on Enjolras’s lap for maximum padding and comfort. The TV was turned on low, and Combeferre dozed and lay still against him, soaking up the touch like he was desperate for it. (Enjolras understood– illness made him feel needy and crave the sensation of being cared for too, and so he knew what to provide.) He only threw up once more between 2:30 and their designated hour of 5:00, but Combeferre still insisted on going to Urgent Care. He knew he was dehydrated, he said, and the little he’d managed to swallow down felt as though it were constantly threatening to come back up again, although for the most part it hadn’t. Enjolras, who hated spending time in doctor’s offices unless it was absolutely necessary, wanted to let the bug run its course, but Combeferre was concerned. So at 5:15 he bundled a swaying and unsteady Combeferre into his winter coat and the two of them drove into town.

He was afraid the car ride might aggravate Combeferre’s stomach, but it did not seem to in any perceptible way; Combeferre slumped against the passenger side window from the moment he was situated in the vehicle and did not move until they pulled up in the clinic’s parking lot. Enjolras signed them in and found them a seat as close to the restroom as possible, just in case– but again, Combeferre did not seem to be in urgent need of vomiting. He texted Joly that they were here, and received back, _Hey, I’m kind of backed up right now. I’ll be free in ~40min. Does he need to see someone now, or can it wait?_ Enjolras looked at Combeferre, who was resting with his head on Enjolras’s shoulder and his eyes sliding shut; he looked pitiful, but not in immediate need of medical attention. _Can wait_ , he texted back, and made Combeferre comfortable against his side, using the corner of the wall to support his own back so that he could be a steady place for his lover to rest against. Combeferre slipped in and out of a hazy half-sleep, occasionally coughing– his throat did sound dry with dehydration, and he managed a little water when Enjolras offered it to him. Occasionally his breathing took on the deeper, more intentionally even patterns of someone deliberately trying to settle his stomach, but this time the efforts appeared to be successful; he did not throw up again.

It was almost an hour before Joly appeared around the corner from his office. He glanced around the waiting room and caught Enjolras’s eye. “Come on back,” he said with a kind look in his eyes, gesturing for them to come with him. Enjolras lightly nudged Combeferre with his elbow until he stirred, his eyes cloudy with sleep and possibly a slight fever.

“Joly’s ready,” he said in a low voice, brushing his lips against Combeferre’s head to check for a temperature; he did feel a bit warm, although less clammy than he had earlier. Combeferre whimpered at the affection, and then again more plaintively when Enjolras stood up and dislodged the comfortable position they’d been resting in. “You OK to stand?” he asked quietly, and Combeferre nodded and allowed himself to be helped to his feet and led back to the examining room.

“OK,” Joly said when they entered the room. “Combeferre, go ahead and sit on the table here for me.” Combeferre gingerly levered himself up, still pale and shaky-looking. Joly gathered tools and came to stand in front of him. “Now, I’m going to ask you all the same things we ask the other patients who’ve been coming in with this bug. I realize that may seem ridiculous because you’re used to being on the other side of this, but just answer as best you can, OK?” Combeferre nodded.

Joly felt his throat and chest, and checked his temperature– “Slightly elevated,” he confirmed. He examined the pallor of Combeferre’s skin with a frown. “When did the nausea start?” he asked.

Combeferre said quietly, “Felt weird last night, but I thought I was just tired. I didn’t start throwing up until early this morning.”

“About 2:30,” Enjolras confirmed, running a hand over Combeferre’s head and smoothing back his hair.

“And what have you been able to keep down since then?” Joly inquired. 

Combeferre swallowed. “Not much,” he said. “Last time I was sick was a few hours ago. I had some water and soda a while ago and so far I’m OK.”

Joly nodded. “Good,” he said, “you’re doing fine.” He looked into Combeferre’s eyes. “Feel dizzy at all? Light-headed?”

Combeferre nodded slightly. “A little,” he admitted. “Warm, too. Dehydrated.” He was swaying a little on the examining table, as though he wanted to slump over; Joly said gently, “Keep sitting up, Combeferre, OK?” and Combeferre held onto the edge in an effort to keep his exhausted body upright. Joly performed a cursory examination of him, and then said, “OK, you can go lie down over there,” gesturing to a cot on the other side of the room. Combeferre gently lowered himself to lie on the bed, curling up on his side and letting his eyes fall shut.

Joly scribbled some notes on a sheet. “You feeling all right?” he asked Enjolras, his eyes briefly rising to sweep over him. He knew all about Enjolras’s medical history and tendency toward illness, after all; if anyone was likely to catch something going around, it was him.

Enjolras nodded. “Feel fine so far. God knows I’ll probably get it at some point, though, knowing me.” On the other side of the room, Combeferre groaned “Oh, _God, fuck_ ,” and sprang up from the bed, rushing to the bathroom and falling in front of the toilet, coughing everything up a few seconds later. Enjolras sighed and sat heavily in the chair next to the examination table, lowering his head into his hand in exhaustion; the weight of the day’s events was settling on him all at once. 

Joly merely grimaced and gave him a supportive, manly pat on the back. “If it helps, today’ll be the worst of it,” he said, and Enjolras groaned in frustration. Joly finished writing on and signing the slip of paper and handed it to him. “This is a prescription for an antiemetic, very mild; it won’t cure his flu, but it should settle his stomach a little. I think he’s probably throwing up now more from mild dehydration than anything else. The meds probably won’t restore his appetite, but it might help him sleep and at least keep fluids down. He should stop throwing up soon afterward, which will be a relief for both of you. If he doesn’t– if he takes it and afterwards he vomits more than twice before morning, I want you to take him to the emergency room so they can administer fluids and give him something stronger. You got all that?” Enjolras nodded and Joly clapped him on the back again. “And I don’t want to see him at work until at least two days from now. He’s gonna need plenty of rest, even after the symptoms recede. Make sure he stays in bed or at least sitting down as much as possible. When he stops throwing up, give him foods that are easy on the stomach, and work him up to heavier meals. You might just want to give him small portions and let him pick at it throughout the day instead of trying full meals for a few days.”

Enjolras acknowledged that he understood all this information, and Joly gestured to the adjoining bathroom with his head, where Combeferre had finished vomiting and was making a pitiful groaning sound instead. “You wanna go in and check on him?” He gave him a sympathetic smile and left to process the paperwork, leaving the two of them alone in the examining room.

Enjolras hesitantly knocked on the half-open door. “Feel better?” he asked nervously, knowing the answer when Combeferre sighed and glared at him. Clearly the frustration of being so sick was pushing Combeferre over to the “crabby” stage of his illness. 

When he spoke, though, his annoyance didn’t quite reach his voice, which was tired but calm. “Think it was just too much moving around,” he said, leaning back against Enjolras when the man settled behind him and wrapped his arms around Combeferre’s sides. “Need to rest for a second.” The frustration was making his eyes water again, and Enjolras wiped away any tears that escaped. 

While he lay against him and just breathed, Enjolras narrated his conversation with Joly to Combeferre. “Joly prescribed something to help you feel better. We’ll stop and get it from the pharmacy on the way home. Then I’m putting you straight to bed, and I have doctor’s orders that you’re to stay there until you’re better.”

“Can I take a shower first?” Combeferre asked weakly.

Enjolras kissed the side of his neck, angling his head awkwardly to do so. “Course,” he answered, threading their fingers together. 

Combeferre insisted on staying right where they were for a few minutes; even though he admitted the nausea had passed pretty much instantly after vomiting– when Enjolras told him Joly’s dehydration sickness theory, he nodded and said “Yeah, that’s about right,”– he still had no energy to get up and move around again. Finally after three or four minutes, he sighed and said, “OK, I feel better now,” and Enjolras helped him off the floor. He drank a small cup of water just to get some fluids in his system, and then they checked out of Urgent Care and went home. 

It appeared Combeferre was more exhausted than he had even seemed to be. He leaned against the window of the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and within a few minutes he slept– through the drive to the pharmacy, through Enjolras getting out of the car and waiting for the prescription to be filled, and all the way through the drive back to the house. In fact, he only barely stirred when Enjolras put the car into park in their driveway and quietly said his name, hoping to wake him gently. He was gearing up to have to carry his partner inside, but when the car door opened he blinked awake and blearily sat up. After that, he made it into the house with minimal support. 

Enjolras made him take the anti-nausea pills before he started the shower. He was surprised Combeferre hadn’t wanted a bath, but the other man seemed perfectly happy to have the soothing pressure of the water falling down on him from above. He didn’t have the energy to remain standing and wash himself, so he sat down on the floor of the shower, leaning his head tiredly against the wall and letting the water flow down over his body in rivulets. When he stumbled out and dried himself off, his skin looked better– less pale, and definitely cleaner and less sweaty. His eyes were hooded with tiredness, but he wasn’t trembling and he didn’t look like he was going to be sick. It was the biggest improvement Enjolras had seen in him all day.

He himself had already gotten into his pajamas and climbed into bed– though he wasn’t sick, Enjolras had been awake more than asleep the previous night since Combeferre had fallen ill, and concern for his lover had also made him tired. He would doubtless wake up very early the next morning as a result of going to sleep now, but maybe that would be for the best; he could take care of Combeferre better if he wasn’t feeling any urge to sleep late. Combeferre padded over to the bed and burrowed under the covers, and after checking that he didn’t feel nauseated, Enjolras gestured to the glass of ginger ale on the bedside table. “Try and finish that before you go to sleep,” he said, and though Combeferre whined at being asked to sit upright again, he gently levered himself to a semi-upright position and began to sip the drink. He was so tired he kept half-falling asleep mid-drink; twice Enjolras had to reach out to steady his hand before he dropped the glass or tilted it. Finally he drained the last drops of it, and Enjolras rewarded him with a tender kiss to his– thankfully cool– forehead. “Get some sleep,” he said.

But that wasn’t even a concern. Combeferre leaned against the headboard and was already sleeping within seconds of finishing the drink; Enjolras had to maneuver him from that position to one in which he was fully lying down, a relocation that got barely a sound or a movement as a response from the unconscious man. He was already sleeping soundly when Enjolras switched off the light, feeling his own exhaustion creeping up on him, and shut his eyes.

\---

There was no more vomiting that night. Enjolras didn’t realize that until he woke up at 8:00 the next morning, his mind taking a moment to process the fact that he had not come awake at all during the past twelve hours. His first thought was _Damn, guess I was more tired than I thought_ , but his next realization was that this meant there had been no interruptions to his sleep from a sick Combeferre. It was clear from the way man was molded to the bed that he had not stirred at all during the night, much less gotten up for any reason. It seemed Joly was right– the worst really was over.

There was one text from Joly on his phone, sent a half hour before. _Better?_

Enjolras sent back, _Seems so. Not awake yet. Nothing overnight_ , and awaited further instructions.

They came twenty minutes later, probably because Joly’s shift was just starting at that time. _Good. Push fluids today– I mean as many as he can handle. If he throws up scale them back a bit, but he probably won’t. Light foods, but only what he feels like eating. Try for a few bites @ least every 3 hrs._

Got it, Enjolras texted back. He leaned over and pressed his lips tenderly to Combeferre’s forehead, enough to telegraph affection but not enough to wake him. Combeferre did not even stir, his breathing even and heavy with his sound sleep. His skin felt cool to the touch, which was a relief. Enjolras decided it would be best to let him sleep a while longer and wake up naturally. He carefully got out of bed and settled in the living room in his pajamas, a cup of coffee and the newspaper next to him as he secluded himself to help Combeferre sleep uninterrupted.

It was about half an hour, maybe forty minutes, later when he heard movement above. The slow creak of floorboards suggested someone was moving around the bedroom; he heard water running briefly, and then unhurried footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Combeferre appeared in the threshold between the living room and kitchen. He was rumpled, his hair sticking up everywhere; his face had the patchy spots of color that suggested he had recently splashed it with water. “Hey,” he said in a voice thick and bleary with sleep, rubbing a hand against his eyes. He looked much healthier, and adorably bewildered to boot.

Enjolras offered him a small smile and gestured to him to come over; Combeferre climbed onto his lap to straddle him in an intimate embrace, kissing Enjolras’s neck affectionately. Enjolras made a contented sound. “Please say you’re not gonna throw up again,” he said in a low rumble.

Combeferre smiled against his skin, chuckling a little under his breath– but it was a tight laugh, evidence that Combeferre was not any more fond of the last 24 hours than Enjolras was. “Hope not,” he said softly, nosing against the pulse of Enjolras’s neck. “Feels like I’ve been run over by a truck, but at least I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna be sick anytime soon.” 

Despite the marathon sleep he’d gotten, Combeferre still seemed tired, like his eyes wanted to close even though he was fully awake. Enjolras suspected _feels like I’ve been run over by a truck_ was an accurate descriptor of his current state of being. “Shouldn’t be out of bed,” Enjolras informed him– matter-of-fact, not scolding.

Combeferre burrowed closer into Enjolras’s body, running his hands up and down his sides, and sighed. “I know,” he said in a murmur. “Just wanted to come down and be here with you for a bit.” He was sweet always, but could be especially so when he was feeling vulnerable. “You’re a good nurse, you know.”

Enjolras laughed out loud at that. “Comin’ from a doctor, that’s pretty high praise,” he answered, turning Combeferre’s head toward him to give him a more sound kiss on the lips.

Combeferre’s lip quirked up when they parted. “And you know you’re probably gonna get all this in a few days.”

Enjolras’s head fell onto Combeferre’s shoulder. “Don’t remind me,” he groaned. “Joly told me yesterday to take a load of vitamins and supplements and hope for the best. Guess that’s the only hope I have of keeping this away from me.”

“Well, at least it might mean you get it less severely than me,” Combeferre told him. “Trust me, if you can avoid even a fraction of how I felt yesterday, it’ll be a blessing.” Enjolras kissed him on the forehead in sympathy, and Combeferre made a small happy sound.

Enjolras ended up letting Combeferre curl up on the couch instead of sending him back to bed. He dragged pillows and blankets out of the linen closet and made him a little nest next to him on the cushions, which Combeferre burrowed into gratefully. He slept again, exhausted, and when he woke Enjolras made him some plain rice, a glass of ginger ale, and a cup of tea. Combeferre picked at it, his appetite practically nonexistent, but over the course of the hour he managed to finish it all. He confessed– under prodding from Enjolras to disclose any and all symptoms– that his back still ached from all the vomiting yesterday, and the coughing that had followed. In return for his honesty, Enjolras settled himself overtop of Combeferre and gave him a back massage that had him moaning wantonly in pure relief. When Enjolras leaned down after he was finished to mouth at the back of his neck and then climbed off, Combeferre breathed, “Holy hell, that’s better than I’ve felt in days.”

Enjolras grinned and carded fingers through the pliant man’s hair, turning his attention back to the movie they were watching on TV. When it ended it was lunchtime, and even though Combeferre insisted he wasn’t hungry, Enjolras placed a few Saltines on a napkin next to him, along with a bottle of water. “Joly said you should drink as many liquids as you possibly can,” he insisted when Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. Despite the skepticism, Combeferre did eat the Saltines over the next hour, and the water was gone by the time he fell asleep _again_ at around 2:00. Enjolras simply tucked the covers further around him, cleared away the napkin with the cracker crumbs on it, and placed another bottle of water on the table by Combeferre’s side, a silent reminder that he needed to keep replenishing his fluid intake.

He went out to the grocery store, getting some easy-on-the-stomach items to provide for the next day’s meals. When he returned the sofa was empty, except for the shell of blankets and pillows that had formerly contained Combeferre. A moment of dread flooded through Enjolras– _oh God, was he sick again?_ – but then he heard the faint sound of the shower running, and realized Combeferre was just getting himself cleaned up. He stowed the groceries away and went up to check on him, knocking quietly on the door. “All good?” he said when he cracked it open a tiny bit, letting the steam hit him in waves.

Combeferre peeked out of the shower. “Fine,” he said. “Come in here with me. I know you haven’t had a shower since I got sick.”

That was an offer Enjolras would never refuse; he stripped off his clothes and pulled back the curtain to step in with Combeferre. “Do I really smell that bad?” he asked languidly, nuzzling his face into Combeferre’s stubble-covered cheek.

Combeferre smiled back. “No, but I kind of had a monopoly on the bathroom. I would’ve remembered if you’d tried to shower while I was in here.”

“Good point,” Enjolras murmured, his lips grazing over Combeferre’s skin. Combeferre, still lazy and weak-seeming with residual sickness, backed him gently up against the shower wall and returned his affection with a kiss that was all at once a prolonged drag of lips and a small sharp bite of teeth. He worried at Enjolras’s lip after he’d nipped it, soothing the (admittedly negligible) pain he’d caused in the process, and then pulled away to begin freshening himself up. 

It was clear throughout the day that the worst was really over; though Combeferre continued to sleep astonishing amounts throughout the rest of that day, and his appetite took a while even after that to be really restored, those symptoms were vastly preferable to what had transpired before. Combeferre spent the next day mostly on the couch, and awake more often than not. He still didn’t feel like eating, but the idea of food did not disgust him either, and he was able to half-heartedly eat a little more than he had done the day before. Some things appealed to his stomach more than others– he favored applesauce, for some reason, and when Enjolras (at Joly’s suggestion) defrosted small bite-size portions of leftover rotisserie chicken and gave them to him with a tiny bit of light gravy, he had no problem eating that. Slowly, little by little, he went back to normal.

It was only a matter of time, though, before the flu bug hit the household again. Enjolras started feeling a little run-down on the second day of Combeferre’s recovery stage, and though he said nothing for the first half of the day, Combeferre noticed his fatigue by the end of it. He frowned and felt Enjolras’s forehead for a temperature, his own forehead screwing up in concentration. Over the course of the day he discreetly made preparations: running the laundry in the washing machine so they would have fresh sheets; making a quick trip to the store to replenish their “sick-foods” supply and get more water; prompting Enjolras to take more vitamins and eat more foods that were high in nutrients. 

Day 3 of Combeferre’s recovery was supposed to be the day he returned to work. Instead, he called in sick that morning, which Joly wasn’t the least bit surprised about. “He’s got it,” he had said into the phone by way of explanation, his voice laced with sympathy. “I’m surprised it took him this long, actually. I’m gonna stay home and look after him today.”

Joly sighed in acceptance. “When did it start?” 

“Just now,” Combeferre responded. “I guess it’s too early to say how bad it’ll be, and I’ll come in if it turns out he’s just gonna be sick once or twice. But considering how bad I had it...”

“...Better safe than sorry,” Joly finished. “OK. But come in tomorrow unless he’s really bad, all right? We need you up here.”

As it turned out, Enjolras did not get the flu as badly as Combeferre had, although he was sick enough to merit his partner staying home from work for the full day. He had still been in the bathroom, resting between the first round of bouts of retching, when Combeferre had called Joly; after a while he allowed himself to be led back to bed, but the second wave of nausea was protractedly worse, causing him to clutch the toilet seat until his knuckles were white and heave so hard he could have sworn he felt it in his ribs. Combeferre’s fingers rubbed into his back, putting pressure where he knew Enjolras could stand it and simple warm contact where he was too sensitive to even the slightest touch. After he had thrown up everything he possibly could, Enjolras whimpered, tears in his eyes from the force of his vomiting and also the misery of his current circumstances. Sickness always made Enjolras pitifully weak and vulnerable; Combeferre bore up better under illness than he did. 

But Combeferre was a nurse by nature as well as a doctor by profession, and he knew what to do to make him feel better. He supported Enjolras’s weight as he moved the man back to bed– his legs were so weak they didn’t want to hold him up– and immediately administered a cool cloth to his face to ease the clamminess. When Enjolras’s body heat began to rise, he got him immediately into a bath just slightly warmer than room temperature; the water soothed him and made him feel less sweaty and uncomfortable, and he slept lightyears better as a result. Combeferre also quickly got him on a regular schedule of food, getting a package of Saltines from the pantry and requiring that Enjolras eat a couple of them once every hour (at least every hour in which he was awake). At first the idea of eating didn’t agree with him, and Enjolras threw up the first couple rounds of food almost immediately. But before long the combination of sleep and the continuity of his regular eating regimen settled his stomach, and within a few hours he was able to keep down the crackers. Combeferre provided regular doses of water and ginger ale as well, and by the time night fell Enjolras was able to eat a piece of toast and a small portion of soup broth without the prospect making him want to vomit.

At bedtime they curled together as closely as they could; Combeferre had already been sick, and was unafraid of getting it as a result. “You feel better?” Combeferre asked as he ran firm fingers across Enjolras’s scalp, but he could tell from the man’s gentle breathing and at-ease body language that he was.

Enjolras kissed his chest, idly leaving his mouth there for some moments before shifting. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice was tired but not pained. “Thanks for makin’ me feel better.” Combeferre simply tightened his fingers briefly on Enjolras’s hips, a momentary squeeze and release, and shifted to tangle their legs together so that their feet were intertwined. Enjolras fit himself into the spaces where Combeferre’s limbs were not, and together they dropped off to sleep at about the same time, Combeferre’s breath rustling Enjolras’s shorter hair and Enjolras’s face buried in Combeferre’s shirt.


End file.
